Losing Me (9 page)

“That’s not what I asked.”

“We’re fine,” Matt said. “It’s just me panicking, that’s all.”

“But I worry. . . . OK, here’s what I think you should do. You need to rent out this flat and come and live with your dad and me. At the same time you could speak to our accountant. Maybe you’re not claiming all the allowances you’re entitled to. I bet there are ways you could be saving money.”

“Mum, does your advice center ever close?”

Barbara gave them a sheepish look. “Sorry. I worry, that’s all.”

“I know,” Jess said. “And we appreciate it. But this is our problem. One way or another, we will come through it.”

“You’re right. Of course you will.”

“And you’ve got your own problems to think about just now.”

“What problems?” Matt said.

Jess explained.

“That’s awful,” Matt said. “I’m really sorry. Look, if there’s anything we can do.”

“That’s kind, but short of getting me my job back, I don’t think there’s anything anybody can do. . . . Right, I need to get home.”

The children returned still damp of head but otherwise dry. Both were in their pajamas.

“Grandma’s off now,” Jess said. “Come and kiss her good-bye and say thank you for all your treats.”

“Bye, Grandma,” Cleo said. “Thank you for my treats.”

Then it was her brother’s turn: “Grandma, can it be another special occasion very soon?”

Barbara bent down to hug both her grandchildren. “We’ll see,” she said.

•   •   •

Ben was sitting with his feet on the kitchen table, channel surfing. Beside him was an empty plate. Judging by the crumbs and caked-on light brown smears, it had recently contained beans and toast. Barbara would say one thing for her son: when it came to feeding him, his preferences were pretty basic.

“Ben, please take your feet off the table. Those things you’re wearing are filthy.”

Ben looked at his beaten-up Converse and put his feet down. “But they’re all I’ve got. . . .
Storage Wars
 . . .
Storage Wars
 . . .
Murder, She Wrote
 . . . Oh, and look,
Storage Wars
 . . .” He turned his head away from the screen. “Where have you been? You’re never this late back.”

“Nana’s with Atticus and Cleo. I just dropped them back home.”

“So how’s my bonkers sister?”

“Don’t be unkind. She’s not bonkers.” Barbara took off her coat and draped it over the back of a chair.

“Really? Well, I have two words to say to you: family cloth. It’s reusable toilet paper.”

“Yes, I know what it is. She’s been telling me all about it.”

“Not to mention everybody on Facebook.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not. You’re friends with her. Take a look if you don’t believe me. . . . You do realize this means that every time one of us visits her, we’ll have to go armed with a secret stash of loo roll.”

“OK, I admit, it is a bit out there.”

“It’s more than ‘out there.’ They’re all going to die of cholera. . . .
Storage Wars
 . . .
The Real Housewives of New Jersey
 . . .
Keeping Up with the Kardashians
 . . .
Storage Wars
 . . .”

Barbara noticed the sink was full of dirty dishes.

“What’s all this?”

Ben said he’d been tidying his room.

“And the reason you haven’t put all your penicillin-encrusted plates in the dishwasher is . . . ?”

“It needs unloading. I was going to get round to doing it. Honest.”

“No, you weren’t. You were leaving it for me.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Have you any idea how fed up I get being treated like the hired help? I shouldn’t have to come home to this.” She snatched the remote from him and zapped the TV.

“Hey, take it easy.”

Barbara pulled out a chair and sat down. “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t be taking it out on you. But I’ve had a crap day.”

“What happened?”

She rubbed her fingers over her forehead. “I lost my job.”

“What? You’re kidding. Bloody hell. What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. The thing is that without my salary coming in, your dad and I are really going to be struggling financially.”

“Shit. So are you kicking me out?”

“What? Of course not. We’d never kick you out. But you can’t go on like this. You need to start earning some money.”

“Look, I’m doing my best. OK?”

“Ben, please don’t get defensive. It doesn’t help.” After the day she’d had, the last thing she wanted was a fight. “I mean, surely you can get some bar work.”

“You think I haven’t tried? I’ve trekked all over town with my CV. There’s nothing.”

“I know.” She felt as hopeless as he looked. His generation hadn’t bargained for this. These were the kids who’d been breast-fed parental approval. Every flower they painted, every poem they wrote, every goal they scored had been celebrated. They grew up believing they were special. For them the future held only possibilities. These children knew that when the time came, all they had to do was go out into the world and claim their due. Then the world changed. Instead of offering opportunities, it hurled lemons.

Barbara decided to change the subject.

“So,” she said, “what time did you get in last night? I didn’t hear you.”

“Dunno . . . threeish. Maybe four.”

“Go somewhere nice?”

“New bar in Whitechapel with some mates. And no, I didn’t ask Dad for cash. I paid for it with some birthday money I had left.”

“So . . .” She hesitated, but as usual, her curiosity got the better of her. “You seeing anybody at the moment?”

“Not really.”

“What does ‘not really’ mean?”

“God, Mum . . .” He did that weary, adolescent eye-roll thing. “It means I’m getting the occasional shag, but there’s nobody serious. Is that what you wanted to know?”

She supposed it was. “Look, I know I’m interfering, but I worry about you getting depressed living at home. I like to know that you’re getting out and doing stuff.”

“Don’t worry. I’m doing stuff. And I’m sorry I keep asking for money in order to do it.”

She was wary of steering him back to the main agenda, but he seemed to be heading that way without her help.

“So how’s the writing going?” she said.

“OK.”

She knew it wasn’t remotely OK. In the last couple of months he’d submitted a hilarious piece to another Web magazine about what it was like being a graduate living back home with his mum and dad. He’d also sent a couple of on-spec music reviews to the
Guardian
. The Web magazine had used the piece, but as usual, there was no fee. The
Guardian
hadn’t even bothered to get back to him.

“Ben, tell me something. Are you absolutely sure you want to be a music journalist?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I dunno. I just get this feeling that you’re not as enthusiastic about it as you once were. If you’ve changed your mind, it doesn’t matter. I mean your dad and I think that with your music background, journalism would be great for you. But if you’re thinking of going in a different direction, it’s not too late.”

“I’m fine. Honest. Please stop worrying. . . . And I’m really sorry about your job. It’s crap. But you’re a great teacher. Something will turn up.”

“I’m not holding my breath, but let’s hope so.”

“And I will start earning some money soon. I promise. I hate being dependent on you and Dad, and now with you losing your job, I feel even worse.”

“I don’t want you to feel bad. Just so long as you’re trying. That’s all we ask.”

“I am. And please don’t think I’m not grateful to you guys. I just need a bit more time to sort myself out. Please, you have to trust me.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you. I’m just not sure how you’re going to do it.”

“Just leave it with me. I’m working on it.”

“Working on what?”

“It. . . . Please can we let the subject drop now?”

He got up and started to unload the dishwasher. Meanwhile, his mother prayed that “it”—whatever “it” might be—would come to something.

A text pinged from inside her bag. It was from Frank.
Exec producer coming this evening to check how edit progressing. Couldn’t put him off. Should be back by ten.

In Frank speak, that meant midnight.

After a long soak in the bath, she lay on the sofa, nursing a glass of Scotch. Ben helped himself to some Ben & Jerry’s and took it up to his room.

Ten o’clock came and went with no sign of Frank. She thought about calling him, but she wasn’t about to beg him to come home. She switched on the news. More floods in Wales. Evil bankers bankrupting struggling businesses in order to boost their own profits. Good Lord, what if that happened to Jess and Matt?

It occurred to her to call Rose to see if the music had disappeared, but having been up since five, her mother would be asleep by now. Unless, of course, the music was keeping her awake.

Barbara decided to see if Dr. Google had anything to say about Rose’s disorder. By now she was starting to think that there could be something seriously wrong with her. The words “brain” and “tumor” had popped into her head more than once this evening. She fetched her laptop from the kitchen and set it up on the coffee table. She typed: “hearing imaginary music.” And there it was, an entire page on something called musical ear syndrome. It drove sufferers crazy with frustration but was entirely benign. It tended to affect the elderly, people with tinnitus, or those who lived in quiet surroundings. Rose had never complained of tinnitus, but she was certainly old and her surroundings were quiet, verging on monastic. According to one Web site, the brain compensated for the silence by creating its own sounds. There was no treatment, although encouraging patients to bring real sounds into their world—from the radio or TV—was thought to help. Well, that was a relief. Barbara would still have a chat with her mother’s GP, but it seemed like there was no cause for panic.

Now that she was online, she thought she might as well see what was happening on Facebook. At the top of her news feed was Jess’s YouTube link about family cloth.
Going to try this out. Will keep you posted.

“Please don’t,” Barbara said under her breath.

Martha and a few more of Jess’s hummusy friends had “liked” it.

Jess wasn’t normal. What sort of a person shares their family’s bottom-wiping habits with the rest of the world? “This is all my fault,” Barbara muttered. Frank was right. When the children were growing up, she’d failed to teach them about social boundaries, when to self-censor and shut up about intimate stuff. But whereas Ben appeared to have taught himself to do it, Jess hadn’t. This was a rerun of the milkman and the clitoris. And it was too late to do anything about it.

Barbara hadn’t posted a status update in ages. She decided to announce that she’d lost her job. She wasn’t sure why. She certainly wasn’t in need of any more sympathy. Or maybe she was.

Lost my job today due to education cuts. Farewell, Jubilee Primary. Hard work, but I had the best time. Can’t begin to describe how much I’m going to miss all my wonderful kids.
She hit “enter” and started to cry.

Finally, she took herself to bed. She tried to read but couldn’t. She tried to sleep but couldn’t.

Her brain refused to switch off. She kept thinking about the future. Without a job, she would fall apart. She needed a plan.

There was only one way forward. She would have to take on some private tutoring. With so many underprivileged, underperforming kids out there, the thought of abandoning them turned her stomach. She felt like a traitor. But the going rate for tutoring was fifty quid an hour. She would get in touch with one of the agencies.

Frank came in bang on midnight. He practically fell onto the bed.

“Please don’t shout. I know I said I’d try to be in at a reasonable time, but you have no idea of the day I’ve had.”

“The day you’ve had?”

“Sorry. . . . I know you had a shit day, too. But these bloody people at the BBC . . . They’re trying to fuck me over on the budget for the Mexico film. They’re offering almost half what I asked for. Bloody cutbacks. On top of that, they’re expecting me to lay out for flights, hotels and car hire and then claim it back. I don’t bloody have it.”

“Raid the tax pot.”

“Again? It isn’t bottomless, you know. Soon there’ll be nothing left.”

“So we’ll be late paying and we’ll get a fine. I don’t see you have any other option.”

“Probably not. Bastards. I need a shower.”

“Now? But it’s after midnight. You’ll wake me up when you come to bed.”

He said he’d be as quick as he could. Barbara lay in bed waiting for him to finish.

“So how are you feeling?” he said when he finally climbed in beside her.

“Crap, since you ask. On top of everything else, my mother seems to be suffering from something called musical ear syndrome.” She explained about Glenn Miller and “Chattanooga Choo Choo.”

“Great. That’s all we need, your mother going bonkers.”

Barbara said it was an ear thing rather than a brain thing. “I need to get her hearing checked out. . . . Oh, and Jess and Matt might be in financial trouble. They’ve been doing all this outside catering and nobody’s paying their bills.”

“They’ll sort it.”

“What do you mean ‘they’ll sort it’? What if they don’t?”

“Barbara, they’re intelligent, industrious kids. They’ll find a way through this. You can’t keep assuming the worst. Stop worrying.”

“And how’s about—just for once in your life—you started worrying about somebody who isn’t you.”

“OK, if this is still about me coming home late, I’m sorry. This bloody exec producer seems to have no home to go to and insisted on coming over to see the film tonight. What could I do?”

“All I wanted was for us to sit down with a bottle of wine and have a talk.”

“I know, but I’m here now. Come on . . . cut me some slack.”

“Frank, I’ve cut you enough slack over the years to make you an overcoat.”

He made his daft, please-forgive-me puppy face. She laid her head on his chest.

“By the way, I had a talk with Ben. He says he’s doing his best to earn money and that we need to trust him. He seems to have some kind of plan up his sleeve. He didn’t want to discuss it and I didn’t push him.”